Читать книгу SQUIRRELY - John Mahoney - Страница 4

By October I had just about run out of money. I needed a job. I didn’t want one, but I knew my beer money wasn’t going to just drop out of the sky. I went to see my friend John at Shop-Rite. I thought maybe he had some pull and could get me a job stocking shelves. I figured that would be the perfect job. I wouldn’t have to work too hard, plus, I could take advantage of the employee discount. The kind of discount where you hide stuff under your jacket as you’re walking out the back door.

The store manager was sympathetic, and was even impressed by my war stories, but there simply was no position for me.

Well, hell, at least I tried to get a job.

On my way home I stopped at Henry’s and spent half of my last ten bucks on beer. As luck would have it , another friend of mine, Danny, had stopped in to buy a six-pack to go. Danny was a mechanic in a gas station. He told me there was an opening for someone to work five or six hours a night pumping gas and doing light mechnical work such as oil changes and fixing flats. He said his boss needed someone to start right away, and that I was sure to get the job.

I stopped by the gas station two days later and was hired.

I hated that first week at the gas station. But by the second week I hated it even more. I was working from 4PM till closing at 10PM. For the first couple of weeks the owner, Charlie, worked with me to show me how to use the pumps, how to change oil and oil filters, how to use the tire machine, and most importantly, how to keep tract of the money. Because of his tight control on bookkeeping I was never able to pocket even a few measly bucks for myself.

Charlie was big on selling oil, since there was more profit from oil than gas. He wanted me to check each customer’s oil when they came in for gas, even if they didn’t ask for it to be checked. Charlie wanted me to just go ahead and open the hood if the latch was on the outside, or else tell the customeer to pull the hood release. Of course, while I was under the hood I was to check the fan belts, battery cables, windshield washer fluid, or anything else I might sell so Charlie could make money.

Charlie had a list of DO’s and DON’T’s which I was to follow to the letter.

DO:

1. Smile. Treat customer courteously at all times.

2. Ask customer if he wants tank filled up. (Presumably, if a customer had planned to buy only five or ten dollars worth of gas, he might say yes to a suggestion of a fill up.)

3. Check oil. (Tell customer he needs a quart even if the level is down half a quart.)

4. Clean windshield. (Suggest to customer he needs a new set of windshield wipers.)

5. Accept money. Put money in lock box.

6. Say thank you, come again.

DON’T:

1. Don’t screw up.

It didn’t take me long to become an expert pump jockey. I soon learned which make of car had the hood release on the outside and which ones were inside. As soon as I saw a car pull in I knew right away if the gas cap was on the right or left side of the car or behind the license plate.

As per Charlie’s instructions I didn’t perform any oil changes after 6PM because I was alone from then until closing. I didn’t like changing oil anyway. The first time I tried it I unscrewed the drain plug, and before I could take my hand away the oil ran down my hand, under my shirt sleeve, and into my armpit. On another occasion I was putting oil into the engine and accidently spilled half a quart onto the engine block. That customer came back later complaining about the choking fumes inside the car.

I didn’t like fixing flats either. Usually it was just a matter of pulling a nail out of a tire and shooting a plug into the hole to seal it. But sometimes I had to break a tire down using the tire machine. Once when I had a tire on the machine, I attempted to use a little tool Charlie had to unscrew the valve from the stem and allow the air to rush out. But I unscrewed the valve too fast, and it shot out, hitting the customer’s ear.

Over the passing months, Charlie’s number one rule of conduct became increasingly more difficult to obey. Customers were not only starting to aggravate me, they were pissing me off! I really hated the people who pulled up too close or too far from the pumps. Or they’ll have a locking gas cap and hand you a ring with a thousand keys on it and you’re supposed to guess which key unlocks the cap. If it was rainy or cold they would open their window only far enough to shout instructions and pass the money out. If I was busy with three or four cars at the same time, there was always some clown who wanted his tire pressure checked. I cleaned windshields as a courtesy and God forbid I should miss a spot, because if I did it was quickly pointed out to me.

One cold night during a lull in the action, I was warming myself in the office when I saw a woman pull up to the pumps. I zipped up my jacket, put on my cap and walked out to her car.

“Fill ‘er up?” I asked, trying to smile.

“No, I just need directions to the Parkway.”

I wanted to kill her! Why couldn’t she get her fat, lazy behind out of the car and go to the office for directions? But no, I couldn’t even enjoy a few minutes rest. Didn’t she realize I had been pumping gas all night and I was tired and cold?

I gave her directions all right; the wrong directions!

But what I hated most was closing time. I might not have a single customer for ten or twenty minutes, but as soon as I wanted to close for the night there was a sudden influx of cars at the pumps. Or sometimes after I finished the last car I’d go in the back room to shut off the pumps and lights, and as soon as I come out front again there’d be a car sitting at the pumps in the dark. And the driver would be sitting there like he didn’t know what was going on.

The only thing I liked about working at the gas station was the hours. My four o’clock starting time permitted me to go to Henry’s in the afternoons. And after work I could go back to Henry’s until he closed at 2AM.

I started putting money away for a used car. Winter was setting in and I was getting tired of walking in the cold to Henry’s, then to work, then back to Henry’s. Sometimes at 2AM I got a ride home from Henry’s, but if I had to walk, all that beer and the cold weather made me have to take a pee in someone’s bushes.

One very cold afternoon I was walking to Henry’s and I spotted a squirrel huddled near the base of a tree. “Hey, little buddy,” I said. “Shouldn’t you be hibernating or something?” I just happened to have some cheese crackers in my jacket pocket from the night before. I tossed them out to the squirrel and he immediately ran to pick them up. I watched as he ate a few, then he made several trips up the tree with the remaining crackers. As I walked away I heard his chatter. I think he was saying thanks.

I arrived at Henry’s with frozen ears and a runny nose. It took three shots of blackberry brandy to warm me up. The only person there was Big Ed, the bartender. I thought John would be there, and I was disappointed he wasn’t. It seemed like it had been weeks since I’ve seen him at Henry’s. Either he was working more hours or his girlfriend was taking up too much of his time.

I decided after two or ten beers I would walk to Shop-Rite and see John. I wanted to make sure he was still my friend, and besides that, I had to buy something for myself. My dad said it was about time I bought my own shaving cream, tooth paste, deodorant, and other stuff like that.

When I got to Shop-Rite I didn’t see John at his usual post behind the cash register. So I grabbed a basket and filled it with ten or eleven items that I needed and headed for checkout. That’s when I spotted John in the produce isle, taking lettuce out of a carton.

“Hey, homey,” I said. “What’re you doing over here with the rest of the fruits?”

John smiled. “I got a promotion. I’m Assistant Produce Manager now.”

“What does that mean? You get to wax the apples?”

“It means more responsibility and more money. Two things you know nothing about.”

“Hey, where’s that girlfriend of yours? I want to check her out.”

“Birdie doesn’t start till five today.”

I made fun of her name and said Birdie was a perfect name for his girlfriend because she probably liked little peckers.

John laughed, but then told me not to talk that way in Birdie’s presence. She was a good girl and might not understand my sense of humor.

“Besides,” John said, “I just might marry that girl.”

I didn’t like what I was hearing. It seemed so many of my friends were getting married, and once they did I never saw them again.

“Married? What the hell for?”

John shrugged. “It’s time I settled down. You should think of settling down too, Mac. Find yourself a nice girl. Get married, have kids.”

I was silent for a moment, then I burst out laughing. “You’re kidding me, right?” John and I always kidded each other, but this time the look on his face told me he was serious. He was in love, and I was afraid there would soon be one less bar fly at Henry’s.

John saw my basket of goodies, and knowing I had to get to work, offered me his car. “Look, take my car. Birdie and I are going out for pizza after work. She can take me home. Use my car for the rest of the night, and while you’re at work you can change the oil and filter.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, buddy.”

I headed for the checkout lane, satisfied at least that John was still my friend, but for how long? He made me realize I had a lot to think about. Here he was in a good job, with a girl he loves, and a future that no doubt included more promotions, kids, and a better class of friends. And where was I? Pumping gas was not a very satisfying career. I didn’t know how much longer I could stand it. I was only qualified to do one other job, and it was the same job I had in the Army. And my Army job was less appealing than pumping gas. One thing I knew for sure—I was too damn young to be thinking about marriage.

I emptied my basket on the checkout belt, my mind wandering. I didn’t know if I resented Birdie for coming between me and John, or if I was just jealous that John had a girlfriend. As I was taking my crumpled bills out of my pocket I heard an old lady’s voice behind me.

“Young man, this is the express lane. Eight items only. You have eleven. Can’t you count?”

“Yes, I can count. Can you count?”

“Of course I can count,” she said.

I held up the one finger that’s universally offensive. “Then, how many fingers am I holding up?”

I was glad John let me use his car. It was freezing out. As I drove to the gas station I realized if I were ever to find a girlfriend I would most definitely need my own car. I could probably afford basic transportation on my present salary, but if I wanted a decent car I would have to do one of two things: either get a better paying job, or cut back on my beer drinking. Or maybe I could find a girl who had her own car and didn’t mind chauffeuring me around.

Somehow I made it through that night’s work. When the wind picked up it felt like twenty below zero. When I first got to Vietnam it was so hot I thought I’d never get used to it. But when that cold wind was blowing through my undershorts I would’ve given anything for one hour of southeast Asian torridity. Lucky for me I had John’s car for the drive to Henry’s.

I arrived at Henry’s at ten fifteen; ten minutes earlier than usual. I parked John’s car right in front of the bar, and place his oil change receipt on the dashboard. He owed me twelve bucks. I made sure the car doors were locked before going into the bar.

I was greeted by many familiar faces, but the one I wanted to see most was absent. I wasn’t surprised. There would be fewer and fewer times when John would occupy the stool next to me. No more of me stealing his change off the bar and using it for the jukebox. No more of him tipping his cigarette ash into my beer. No more shoulder punching, crotch grabbing, mother insulting camaraderie. No more tar beach. And it was all his girlfriend’s fault. Birdie. What a stupid name.

At around one in the morning I had had enough. I bought two little bags of cheese crackers and put them in my jacket pocket. Outside, I bunched my jacket around my neck. My eyes immediately began to tear from the cold. I stood by John’s car searching every pocket for the keys. Did I leave them on the bar? After a minute or two I found them, or rather I saw them—snug and secure in the ignition.

I figured I had enough anti-freeze in me to make the walk home. And I only had to stop three time to let some out.